


Fireworks

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Crack, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC plays Rachmaninoff and muses upon her feeling for the Hiddles in a very, very short time-span.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks

For as long as I can remember, I have always found it distracting , not only due to my incessant need of putting on a performance whenever people are around, but also because they make me lose my focus. Especially him. Having people watching you practice cancels out the very point of practicing.

We’ve been going out for a month now, which basically means we’ve known each other a grand total of a little over five minutes, give or take a few seconds. Well, to be completely frank, I’ve known him for way longer than that but it’s kind of hard not to with all those Tumblr blogs floating around the Web and the way his workaholic tendencies have generated yet another fandom apocalypse which took place absolutely and undeniably unbeknownst to him. Tom is, true to form, blissfully unaware of both, the things that go down outside of this impalpable and totally obvious sphere of social interaction that his PR team closely and rigorously supervises, and my raging fangirl tendencies – because what Tom doesn’t know won’t hurt him and what he does know is perfectly all right with him as long as there’s pudding involved – and continues leading a happy, healthy and very productive life.

And I think I love him. Well, what’s not to love about him, one would ask and, while I have to agree ( he is smart, romantic, funny and pretty much all we’ve obsessively made him out to be ) I feel that I am still to experience the fireworks. The “Fuck, I love him” fireworks, that is, not the “Dang, bitch, you’re, like, totally fucking him now” ones. Although those were quite the experience…

But I do, indeed, get the feeling that I love him, despite not being sure of it, and this exact feeling is, as we speak, massively disrupting my concentration. The refrigeratory state of the room is surely of no aid to my deplorable condition either, that unless I freeze to death in t minus thirty seconds which I might not make it to anyway given the fact that my fingers have actually started cramping up.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter under my very much visible breath, placing my hands in my lap. “But I’m bloody freezing in here, and I can’t move my fingers anymore.”

He stands from his chair, humming in agreement, “Turn,” he softly requires as he bestrides the bench I’m seated on, facing me. He grabs my thighs and pulls me to him so that my legs are circling his waist. He smells so nicely…

“You’re classically trained, are you not?” he takes my palms in his and the relief is almost instant.

“Well, I did just play Rach for you,” I answer, feeling my skin goose bump under my sweater. It’s a stupid question, really, considering the fact that no self-taught cover-making individual, regardless of how skilled they are, can comprehend let alone master the true finesse of playing the piano.

He brings them to his lips and kisses them; each knuckle and fingertip, and I can only gape like a fool, disbelieving and feeling increasingly hotter by the peck. This man, this smart, beautiful, extremely famous and rich man with his majestically sexy, veiny arms and neck and glass cutting jaw and cheekbones so beautifully sculpted they cast shadows large enough to shelter half the Amazonian population and his totally unnecessarily vast knowledge of Shakespeare and ability to read and understand Plato’s works in original Greek is warming up my almost blue hands, gently rubbing them and bowing hot air onto them and I can feel my ovaries overcharging, ready to combust and thereof bereaving me of the honour of ever bearing his offspring because, apparently, I seem to be longing to do that, too, even if I never wanted children before because I think they are little, impossible brats and I hate them but I’m sure his would be perfect because he’s perfect and-

“Hey,” he coos stroking my cheek with his thumb. “Where are you, darling girl?”

His cold, mind-numbingly blue eyes are locked to mine and I can smell the smoke of fireworks – they have already gone off and I didn’t even realise.

“I love you.”


End file.
